Read Shall We Tell the President? Online
Authors: Jeffrey Archer
Shall We Tell the President? (21 page)
Matson smiled. “It will give me a good appetite,” he said, and left.
The Chairman picked up the phone. “We're ready for lunch now, thank you.” He lit another cigarette.
9 March
2:15 P.M.
Mark finished his lunch. Two other men finished their sandwiches and also rose to leave. Mark quickly returned to the Senate, as he wanted to catch Henry Lykham before the floor debate started. He hoped that Lykham would have something new to reveal after having had a night to sleep on it. He also needed copies of the Judiciary Committee Gun Control Hearings so that he could study the questions asked by Brooks, Byrd, Dexter, Harrison, and Thornton. Perhaps they would reveal another missing piece of the jigsaw. But somehow Mark doubted it. He was becoming convinced that politicians rarely revealed anything. He arrived a few minutes before the session was scheduled to begin, and asked a page if he could locate Lykham in the antechamber.
Lykham bustled out a few moments later. It was obvious he didn't want a chat ten minutes before a full session. So he had no real chance to tell him anything
new even if he had thought of something. All Mark did manage to find out was where to obtain transcripts of the committee hearings and discussions.
new even if he had thought of something. All Mark did manage to find out was where to obtain transcripts of the committee hearings and discussions.
“You can get them from the committee office at the end of the corridor.”
Mark thanked him and walked upstairs to the gallery, where his new friend, the guard, had saved him a seat. The place was already packed. Senators were entering the chamber and taking their places, so he decided to pick up the transcripts later.
The Vice President, Bill Bradley, called for order and the tall figure of Senator Dexter looked around the room slowly and dramatically, sweeping the chamber with his eyes to be assured of everyone's attention. When his eyes alighted on Mark he looked a little surprised, but he quickly recovered and began his final arguments against the bill.
Mark was embarrassed and wished he had taken a seat nearer the back, beyond the range of Dexter's piercing glance. The debate dragged on. Brooks, Byrd, Dexter, Harrison, Thornton. They all wanted a final word before tomorrow's vote. Before tomorrow's death.
Mark listened to them all but he learned nothing new. He seemed to have come to a dead end. All that was left for him to do that day was to go and pick up transcripts of the hearings. He would have to read them through the night and he doubted, having listened to the five speak twice already, that they would reveal anything. But what other lead did he have left? Everything else was being covered by the Director. He walked
down the hall to the elevator, left the Capitol by the ground-floor exit, and made his way across the Capitol grounds to the Dirksen Building.
down the hall to the elevator, left the Capitol by the ground-floor exit, and made his way across the Capitol grounds to the Dirksen Building.
“I would like the transcripts of the Gun Control Hearings, please.”
“All of them?” asked the disbelieving secretary.
“Yes,” replied Mark.
“But there were six all-day sessions.”
Oh, hell, he thought, it will be worse than all night; still, it would be only the questions and statements of Brooks, Byrd, Dexter, Harrison and Thornton.
“Sign or pay?”
“I wish I could sign,” he said jokingly.
“Well, are you an official of any kind?”
Yes, thought Mark. But I can't admit it.
“No,” said Mark, and took out his wallet.
“If you asked for these through one of the senators from your state, you could probably get them for nothing. Otherwise that'll be ten dollars, sir.”
“I'm in a hurry,” said Mark. “Guess I'll have to pay.”
He handed over the money. Senator Stevenson appeared in the doorway connecting the hearing room to the committee office.
“Good afternoon, Senator,” said the secretary, turning away from Mark.
“Hi, Debbie. Would you happen to have a copy of the Clean Air bill as it was reported out of the subcommittee, before the committee markup?”
“Certainly, Senator, just a moment.” She disappeared into a back room. “It's the only copy we have at the
moment. Can I trust you with it, Senator?” She laughed. “Or should I make you sign for it?”
moment. Can I trust you with it, Senator?” She laughed. “Or should I make you sign for it?”
Even senators sign, thought Mark. Senators sign for everything. Henry Lykham signs for everything, even lunch. No wonder my taxes are so high. But I imagine they have to pay for the food later. The food. My God, why didn't I think of it before. Mark started running.
“Sir, sir, you've left your hearings,” a voice shouted. But it was too late.
“Some kind of nut,” said the secretary to Senator Stevenson.
“Anyone who wants to read all those hearings must be crazy to begin with,” said Senator Stevenson, staring at the pile of paper Mark had left behind him.
Mark went straight to Room G-211, where he had lunched with Lykham the previous day. The door was marked “Officials' Dining Room.” There were only two or three attendants in evidence.
“Excuse me, I wonder if you could tell me, is this where the senators eat?”
“I'm sorry, I don't know. You'd have to talk to the hostess. We're just cleaning up.”
“Where might I find the hostess?”
“She's not here. Gone for the day. If you come back tomorrow, maybe she can help you.”
“Okay.” Mark sighed. “Thanks. But can you tell meâis there another Senate dining room?”
“Yeah, the big one in the Capitol. S-109, but you won't be able to get in there.”
Mark ran back to the elevator and waited impatiently.
When he reached the basement level, he jumped out and walked past the entrance to the labyrinthine tunnels which connect all the office buildings on Capitol Hill. Past the door marked “Tobacco Shop,” he raced towards the large signâ“Subway Cars to Capitol.” The subway car, actually just an open train with compartments, was about to leave. Mark stepped into the last compartment and sat down opposite a couple of Senate staffers who were jabbering away about some bill or other, with an air of “we belong.”
When he reached the basement level, he jumped out and walked past the entrance to the labyrinthine tunnels which connect all the office buildings on Capitol Hill. Past the door marked “Tobacco Shop,” he raced towards the large signâ“Subway Cars to Capitol.” The subway car, actually just an open train with compartments, was about to leave. Mark stepped into the last compartment and sat down opposite a couple of Senate staffers who were jabbering away about some bill or other, with an air of “we belong.”
A few moments later, a bell signaled their arrival and the train came to a stop at the Senate side of the Capitol. Easy life, thought Mark. These guys need never even wander out into the cold, cruel world. They just shuttle back and forth between votes and hearings. The basement on this side was a replica of the basement on the other side, a dull yellow, with exposed plumbing, and the inevitable Pepsi machine; it must have made Coca-Cola mad that Pepsi had the concession for the Senate. Mark bounded up the small escalator and waited for the public elevator, while a couple of men with a certain air of importance were ushered into the elevator marked “Senators Only.”
Mark got off on the ground floor, and looked around, perplexed. Nothing but marble arches and corridors. Where was the Senate Dining Room? he asked one of the Capitol policemen.
“Just walk straight ahead, take the first corridor on the left. It's the narrow one, the first entrance you get to.” He pointed.
Mark tossed a thank-you over his shoulder and found the narrow corridor. He passed the kitchens and a sign which announced “PrivateâPress Only.” Straight ahead, in large letters on a wooden sign, he saw another “Senators Only.” An open door on the right led into the anteroom, decorated with a chandelier, a rose-colored, patterned carpet, and green leather furniture, all dominated by the colorful, crowded painting on the ceiling. Through another door, Mark could see white tablecloths, flowers, the world of gracious dining. A matronly woman appeared in the doorway.
“What can I do for you?” she asked, raising her eyebrows inquisitively.
“I'm doing a thesis on the working life of a senator for my Ph.D.” Mark took out his wallet and showed his Yale I.D. card, covering the expiration date with his thumb.
The lady was not visibly impressed.
“I really only want to look at the room. Just to get the atmosphere of the place.”
“Well, there are no senators in here at the moment, sir. There almost never are this late on a Wednesday. They start going back to their home states on Thursdays for a long weekend. The only thing that is keeping them here this week is that Gun Control bill.”
Mark had managed to edge himself into the center of the room. A waitress was clearing a table. She smiled at him.
“Do senators sign for their meals? Or do they pay cash?”
“Almost all of them sign, and then they pay at the end of the month.”
“How do you keep track?”
“No problem. We keep a daily record.” She pointed to a large book marked
Accounts.
Mark knew that twentythree senators had lunched that day because their secretaries had told him so. Had any other senator done so without bothering to inform his secretary? He was a yard away from finding out.
Accounts.
Mark knew that twentythree senators had lunched that day because their secretaries had told him so. Had any other senator done so without bothering to inform his secretary? He was a yard away from finding out.
“Could I just see a typical day? Just out of interest,” he asked with an innocent smile.
“I'm not sure I'm allowed to let you look.”
“Only a glance. When I write my thesis, I want people to think that I really know what I'm talking about, that I've seen for myself. Everyone's been so kind to me.”
He looked at the woman pleadingly.
“Okay,” she said grudgingly, “but please be quick.”
“Thank you. Why don't you pick any old day, let's say 24 February.”
She opened the book and thumbed through to 24 February. “A Thursday,” she said. Stevenson, Nunn, Moynihan, Heinz, names rang one after the other. Dole, Hatfield, Byrd. So Byrd lunched at the Senate that day. He read on. Templeman, BrooksâBrooks as well. More names. Barnes, Reynolds, Thornton. So his statement this morning was for real. The hostess closed the book. No Harrison, no Dexter.
“Nothing very special about that, is there?” she said.
“No,” said Mark. He thanked the woman and left quickly.
In the street he hailed a taxi. So did one of the three men following him; the other two went off to pick up their car.
Mark arrived at the Bureau a few moments later, paid the driver, showed his credentials at the entrance, and took the elevator to the seventh floor. Mrs. McGregor smiled. The Director must be alone, thought Mark. He knocked and went in.
“Well, Mark?”
“Brooks, Byrd, and Thornton are not involved, sir.”
“The first two don't surprise me,” said the Director. “It never made any sense that they were, but I'd have put a side bet on Thornton. Anyway, how did you dispose of those three?”
Mark described his brainstorm about the Senate dining room, and wondered what else he had overlooked.
“You should have worked all of that out three days ago, shouldn't you, Mark?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So should I,” said the Director. “So we're down to Dexter and Harrison. It will interest you to know that both men, along with almost all of the senators, intend to be in Washington tomorrow and both are down to attend the ceremony at the Capitol. Amazing,” he mused, “even at that level, men like to watch their crimes enacted.
“Let's go over it once again, Andrews. The President leaves the south entrance of the White House at 10:00 A.M. unless I stop her, so we have seventeen
hours left and one last hope. The boys in Fingerprints have isolated the bill with Mrs. Casefikis's prints on it. The twenty-second, we may be luckyâwith still another half dozen to go we shouldn't have had a hope before ten o'clock tomorrow. There are several other prints on the bill, and they will be working on them all through the night. I expect to reach home by midnight. If you come up with anything before then, call me. I want you here in the office at 8:15 tomorrow. There's very little you can do now. But don't worry too much; I have twenty agents still working on it, though none of them knows all the details. And I'll only let the President into the danger zone if we have a fix on these villains.”
hours left and one last hope. The boys in Fingerprints have isolated the bill with Mrs. Casefikis's prints on it. The twenty-second, we may be luckyâwith still another half dozen to go we shouldn't have had a hope before ten o'clock tomorrow. There are several other prints on the bill, and they will be working on them all through the night. I expect to reach home by midnight. If you come up with anything before then, call me. I want you here in the office at 8:15 tomorrow. There's very little you can do now. But don't worry too much; I have twenty agents still working on it, though none of them knows all the details. And I'll only let the President into the danger zone if we have a fix on these villains.”
“I'll report at 8:15 then, sir,” said Mark.
“And, Mark, I strongly advise you not to see Dr. Dexter. I don't want to blow this whole operation at the last moment, because of your love life. No offense intended.”
“No, sir.”
Mark left, feeling slightly superfluous. Twenty agents now assigned to the case. How long had the Director had them working round the clock without telling him? Twenty men trying to find out whether it was Dexter or Harrison, without knowing why. Still, only he and the Director knew the whole story, and he feared the Director knew more than he did. Perhaps it would be wiser to avoid Elizabeth until the following evening. He picked up his car, and drove back to the Dirksen Building and then remembered he had left the hearings' transcripts at the Committee Office. When he got there he
found himself drawn toward the telephone booths. He had to call her, he had to find out how she was after her accident. He dialed Woodrow Wilson.
found himself drawn toward the telephone booths. He had to call her, he had to find out how she was after her accident. He dialed Woodrow Wilson.
“Oh, she left the hospitalâsome time ago.”
“Thank you,” said Mark. He could feel his heart beat as he dialed her Georgetown number.
“Elizabeth?”
“Yes, Mark.” She soundedâcold? frightened? tired? A hundred questions were racing through his mind.
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